


Abalathia's Spine

by berserkechi



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, and im just really gay, this is messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 11:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17621531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berserkechi/pseuds/berserkechi
Summary: it feels an act of the highest sacrilege to step foot in the bedchambers of an eternally divine Fury-wrought angel, to feel the feathers of shedding wings stick to bare feet and fall, fragile, into wandering hands.





	Abalathia's Spine

**Author's Note:**

> i just started heavensward a few days ago and i'm already obsessed. hit me up on twit if you want to talk about these good elf boys (or anything else really) @ [serzepherin](http://www.twitter.com/serzepherin)

wars have torn worlds apart for less. war, Ishgard is familiar with -- divided fronts draw combat and intelligence to opposite ends of the field as they have for a millenia, and those who excel at both find themselves shorn of a consistent pace, caught tight in the turbulence of ever shifting tides. Aymeric is one of them. the title Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of the Holy See is a title that displays high regard for both mind and body, fought and well-earned; but war is also not known for being kind, eating away at any time set aside for matters more personal.

the dragons' calls are indiscriminate, devouring resources and burning through cavalries. Estinien is no stranger to this either. oft times he finds himself confronted when he means to return home. oft times he settles the most imperative of his duties, tastes only the faintest glimmer of hope of a return home, only for other matters to extinguish that feeble flame, leaving him ragged and exhausted with the war effort.

this never stops them, however. and there are rare few times when they do manage the savage monotony. now is one of those times -- Aymeric finds the traffic of coming subordinates dwindles to the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, none of which notice the slight way his feet drag, every request a ball of lead plunged upon his sore shoulders like Atlas bearing the weight of the world, of the consequences of actions not his own. though never does the lilt of his voice falter, confidence in him a bright flame - and it is for the warmth of this that he is rewarded, a moment granted in which he can return home and rest proper.

upon his return home he wastes no time shedding his coat, setting it aside carefully to avoid wrinkling the pristine fabric of his position, kicking off thick boots by the door, before he makes his eager way to his chambers. he has dreamed of a thorough rest, of coming home and having a drink and the blessed opportunity to sleep through the night with no interruption (this has become nigh impossible since the passing of the Calamity, with the bitter cold and inclimate terrain and Dravanian hordes ever a threat). 

the thick wooden door of his bed chambers creaks open with no discretion, falling shut behind him, and it's once his eyes adjust to the dim candlelight that he notices another form -- a form instantly unopposing, sitting at his desk with a small book in hand that Aymeric recognizes as having been taken from the bookshelf across the far wall. a smile graces their features simultaneously though Estinien doesn't look up, not even as light footfalls carry Aymeric across the room. it takes the gentle touch of a war-scarred hand outstretching, plucking the reading material away by the spine to place face down atop the desk. it's only then that Estinien turns his gaze towards his beloved companion, watching with ever-rapt attention the descent that brings aymeric setting down across his lap.

Aymeric sighs, a lofty, coy thing, murmuring softly when his arms coil themselves around built shoulders, lips at his jaw, "you should really get in the habit of writing when you intend to return. one of these days, you'll actually catch me off guard." there is jest laden heavy in his words, though there is grave implication with them: they are two men whose hands are ever tainted with blood, lives entwined with strings of fate cut short by a war instigated by the forefathers of the Holy See of Ishgard. a war with no end in sight. in his mind's eye, he dreadfully imagines a scenario in which it comes to that. worse than losing Estinien to the Dravanians, he could not bear the agony of losing him to his own hand.

"it's hardly that simple when i am stealing what brief moments i get, Lord Commander." they both know that much, though oft times they refuse to acknowledge the unfortunate truth; they are limited to passing glances and touching hands on the best of days, Aymeric exhausted from diplomacy, his childhood friend run ragged by the battles he dances 'twixt. words are met with a silence of understanding, no argument rising to the high Ishgardian's silver tongue. (Estinien is the only one to have ever been able to make Aymeric falter - whether due to the honesty of his words or the effect he tends to have on the Commander, Aymeric does not know.)

a hand comes to rest upon Estinien's chest, a reluctant distance placed between them despite the way the ever-beating dragoon's heart beckoning for that space to be closed; he longs for it, he truly does, a longing he can only thinly veil in azure depths that find visage from beneath lashes.

"i oft find myself dreaming of the briefest reprieves from this eternal hell.. so that we may take what time we are given to reacquaint ourselves with one another once more." implication laces itself in his tone, low with faux innocence that Estinien knows Aymeric has never had, for no man born under the stars of the reclusive nation of Ishgard can claim innocence.

the dragoon has seen his friend in times of cynical doubt wherein he questions their governing goddess, just as he has seen the naivety in the way Aymeric so hopefully clings to the idea that out there, somewhere, there is a way to preserve the most lives possible -- as if their hands are not both stained with the blood of beast and kin alike, coagulated and settling into scars etched by talons and blades. the smile Estinien offers is caustic around the edges, an optical illusion in the way lips twist cruelly into a scowl, but lips find his and the doubt and stress ease from stiffened shoulders, familiar embrace met with haste lest he sour their one free evening together. sometimes, they cannot help but linger on such grim circumstances -- after all, how selfish it is of them to cherish their lives, when so many have fallen to their inadequacy.

though Aymeric moves, the contact never breaks. he fingers between the plates of Estinien’s armor, an absent motion that only gains urgency when he works free that first layer, an impatience to make up for lost time portrayed so simply in the action. each second ticks by at double speed, dwindling time like the tension in the air that crackles before a storm, any motion too fast or word too loud liable to strike the both of them down with wave after wave of relentless blankets of snow, a sweeping blizzard that filters in from the crack ‘neath his door and replaces the oxygen before they have even begun to miss it. haste is not lost on Estinien, never is; plate after plate of ancient and nigh indestructible plate armor clattering to the floor.

between breaths that strangle them, Estinien thinks of shedding scales. he thinks of Hraesvelgr, of man laying with monster, of the horrid, gnashing fangs he hides away in his personality, the way his soul feels weighted with a millenia not his own. he thinks of fragile life -- how easily he tears into feathers and scales, and how easier still flesh is to rend ‘neath the talon of his lance. he clutches Aymeric like he’s a prized relic, arms winding themselves around lower back when he hoists their combined weight with ease and guides Aymeric to their shared but ever empty and cold bed.

\-- thinks of the war that rages on outside their doors, or of the bed of red blossoms; lilies and dahlias, writhing, petals caressing the way wandering fingertips do when they strip the Lord Commander of his undershirt and leave him shivering vulnerable to the cold. even colder still, the dragoon’s lips press to the center of Aymeric’s chest, devouring the expanse and savoring the way his love squirms impatiently under his touch.

they have learned to speak in subliminal messages; Estinien wanders his affections to Aymeric’s throat, lets a flattened tongue map the point of his pulse. _bite down_ , something furious and starved snarls in him, logic lost to an unbridled rage, _shred. tear. consume. mine enemies are thine._ the commander entwines skilled fingers in tresses and gives a firm tug of approval urging action, arches his hips up greedily in spite of the heavy armor still ensnaring the lancer’s lower half. this alone is blasphemy -- and whilst they dance around the truths, of fraternizing with enemies, befriending and betraying, it feels an act of the highest sacrilege to step foot in the bedchambers of an eternally divine Fury-wrought angel, to feel the feathers of shedding wings stick to bare feet and fall, fragile, into wandering hands.

“kiss me again, Estinien,” comes a command in a voice strung tight with what seems as eons of longing, of sleepless nights or of nights filled with dreams of intimacy and terrors of loss. and Estinien is eager to harken his call. he pulls away just long enough to gorge himself on the sight of the half-bare commander lain out before him like the finest of final meals, places a hand on either cheek and zeroes his attention on lips. it’s a messy kiss, forceful, both parties far too desperate to taste and touch to bother savoring the embrace; _bite down_ comes that feral voice again, lost to all logic, and Estinien swallows it down when he pulls the tongue from Aymeric’s mouth, muscle dripping in silver and gold.

Estinien has always been good with his tongue. though he may fight for dominance, it’s ultimately lost in the way he groans into the kiss -- the azure dragoon is sharper, a wit just as quick as his own and twice as dark, the dragon’s blood distorting and dementing. even amidst the kiss, removing the rest of their clothing is no ordeal for two in perfect synchronization, mindless touches prying the last of offending fabric free until naught remains but bare bodies wholly devoted to one another.

these nights always begin and end the same. Aymeric is honor-bound to the Holy See of Ishgard -- an oath swears him to the city-state, head of defensive tides that swallow him up in waves of self-hatred with every parting he tallies in. they begin with an unbridled need, limbs tangled and breaths bated, and they end in disappointment. Aymeric sighs hymnals of the wyrm-slayer’s name, forms mantras of pleas, but it’s never enough; for a wyrm is as a wyrm does, a covetous beast that swallows them all down with his own lips and settles on the horde of filth he has built for himself in wake of his own monstrosity.

he could dig his fingers through spinal column and tear away the nerves, Estinien thinks as digits dip and prod along the bone there, _and he would thank me for my time._ the Lord Commander arches in that marble-carved way of his, strangles himself on the syllables of Estinien’s name. Aymeric does not remember leaving that desk, has yet to quite register the chill of the room settling over his frame moments before Estinien pulls the covers over them both. time is as it always was and always will be, the moments cherished the most gone in less than an inhale, as they shall forevermore, meager lives of mankind paling in the unending cycle of existence.

Aymeric smiles in his dazed glow, either arm coiled possessively around Estinien, visage tucked into his lover's neck where he litters a starfield of kisses and nips along bared flesh. weight of the world replaces itself with weight of exhaustion, and for once, thoughts of the morrow do not plague his fretting mind, no diplomacy bleeding into the warmth that settles into his wind-chilled core.

"i will love you... until the day Ishgard falls to the Dravanians," the Lord Commander's tone drawls on, moreso than his typical timbre, and Estinien can't help the brief chuckle that escapes from his lungs at both the beauty of his significant other basking in bliss and the peculiar choice of words he selects.

"Ishgard will never fall to the Dravanians," Estinien clips in return, the implication lost. Aymeric smiles, lifts his head up just enough for those glimmering and ever-mischievous eyes to meet his; and Estinien memorizes that expression, a force driving him ever-determined more than a thirst for blood. a pause lingers between them, comfortable and lax -- and when Aymeric speaks again, sleep dances about the edge of his voice, delightfully light and carefree.

"and that is how long i will love you. eternally; whatsoever may come between us may never keep us apart."

Aymeric tries his damnest not to notice the pain that slices through his gut when he awakens to a cold, empty bed suited for two the next morning. (he does not succeed.)


End file.
